The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl (35 page)

There are a number of ways you can be awoken on a Sunday morning. With a nice cup of tea. Or a bacon roll. Or a leisurely shag. Or seeing your big mug inside Scotland’s biggest tabloid newspaper.

There’s me and my long-suffering husband on page 22 of today’s
Sunday Mail
with the headline
NET LOSS.
They printed a gigantic wedding photo and went for the Fat Chick Loses Lard Then Finds Love angle. At least Gareth can share in the joy of seeing your pixilated face hogging half a page.

The paper saw the
Grazia
story and wanted to do its own piece. It seemed like a reasonable idea at the time, but now I’m running around our flat in a grand panic, wondering if anyone I know reads the
Sunday Mail.
I am hoping they’re more
Herald
or
Observer
people, so no one comes up to me in the kitchen tomorrow saying, “So! You were pretty lardy, eh?”

Meanwhile, Gareth is still cackling over the Before photo in the article. Not at me directly, just the bizarre way they chopped me out from the background of the original photograph from my twenty-first birthday party then wrapped the text around my bulbous, disembodied form. So I just hover on the page, Jabba the Hut style. They chopped the birthday cake out of the picture too, except for the flaming sparklers on top, so it looks like my guts have exploded.

It is utterly mortifying to see yourself floating in a national newspaper, yet the more I stare at it, the funnier it becomes. But I’m going to punch Gareth if he doesn’t stop laughing soon.

Apologies for the lengthy silence around here, I’ve been busy hiding in a dark room, rocking back and forth and speaking in tongues. It’s been an interesting week, to say the least.

It finally happened, people. The mask is off. Dietgirl has been OUTED to all and sundry!

I admit that I’m a moron when it comes to all things arithmetical and statistical, so perhaps that’s why I’d convinced myself that even though the
Sunday Mail
sells millions of copies, none of my acquaintances would be among its readers. I mean, surely they’d go for something a wee bit more highbrow?

Even so, I tiptoed into the office extra early on Monday morning, determined to keep a low profile. But right away a colleague ambushed me in the foyer.

“Morning.”

“Why hello!” she grinned. “And how are you?”

Uh-oh.

“I opened the paper yesterday morning and I thought, ‘That looks like Shauna.’ And it was! I got the shock of my life!”

“Oh!”

And so it went all week. There were smiles, gasps, and heads shaken in disbelief. There were jokes, sideways looks, and hush-hush conversations. Some people even brought in the clipping and passed it around their department.

But everyone has been lovely. Surprised, but lovely. They had no idea that I was larger before I came to Scotland, so I suppose it’s understandable that they were shocked to have their Sunday morning cornflakes interrupted by my pudgy floating head.

The attention made me squirm, because despite my amazing NET LOSS! I am still bigger than 95 percent of my colleagues. I wanted to get a T-shirt that says I’m not done yet. Now everytime someone so much as glances at me, I’m worried they’re trying to picture me twice as wide.

The most infuriating moment was when I got cornered waiting for the lift. That’ll teach me not to take the stairs!

“I heard about your … article,” my colleague said in a stage whisper. “It’s amazing. But I just can’t picture you being so … so … you know. Big!”

“Oh?”

“I mean, 350 pounds!” Her face wrinkled up with mild distaste as though she’d said,
I mean, two vaginas!
or
Sleeping with horses!

My body crackled with irritation. I’m extremely protective of my larger former self. I’m still the same person I was back then, just with slightly better eating and exercise habits! Sometimes I think I should have been an alcoholic; it seems a more socially acceptable character kink. Obesity just isn’t glamorous.

Yesterday Grant came up to me and leaned on my desk. “So,” he said. “I’ve got a sprawling beer belly, eh?”

“What?”

“I was reading your website last night.”

“Oh?”

“Does August 2004 ring any bells? You were describing someone very familiar!”

Shit shit shit! I’d written about him! And his former sprawling beer belly! I believed I’d described him as having an assortment of chins.

“I’m sorry!” I blurted. “I was just jealous of you, flaunting your baggy trousers around the office!”

“Don’t worry,” he grinned. “I showed it to my wife too. It’s not every day you find someone talking about your trousers on the Internet.”

Oh God. How horrifying to hear your own words coming back at you from a real live person! For all these years I’ve been secretly typing away and thinking only imaginary cyber folk were reading. I’ve been so careful to use pseudonyms and not write anything that could weed me out in a Google search, but now my hysterically guarded anonymity has been destroyed!

There is no escape. Here are a few choice vignettes from the past week.

Scene 1: The vending machine at work.

SHAUNA
: Bugger! It’s out of Snickers. I really wanted a Snickers.

COLLEAGUE
: Should you even be anywhere near that machine, Dietgirl?

Scene 2: At the train station.

[My friend Richard spots me and runs over.]

RICHARD
: Hey! I saw you in the paper!

SHAUNA
: Shit!

RICHARD
: What a surprise, eh? You’re the Diet Lady! Hello, Diet Lady! Hey, don’t look embarrassed; it’s so cool. BE PROUD, DIET LADY!… It is Diet Lady, isn’t it?

Poor Gareth has been copping it too. His friend Steve said, “Mate, when you get married, people usually put a photo in the local rag, not the
Sunday Mail
!” Then a client left a message: “Nice to see you’ve found yourself a little wife on the Internet.”

I’ve spent a few days in mourning. Dietgirl has been my outlet during this epic expedition, and I naively failed to consider how the article might change that. For someone who used to regularly take refuge in the bottom of a cupboard, I feel exposed knowing my last hideaway is gone.

But I’m trying to look at this experience in a positive light. How many people can say they were tabloid news?

More importantly, I know it’s time to stop hiding. Back when I was twice as big, I felt like half the person I wanted to be. I hid myself away from the world and made as little fuss as possible. Since I took up so much physical space, I tried to make my personality small. So my virtual space was where I could freely express myself and talk about my weight, something I was too ashamed to do in person.

But now everybody knows, and it turns out it’s not a big deal after all. I always worried that people would look at me differently if they knew about my past. But instead they’ve just said they were proud of me, even inspired.

I’m going to be proud too. I look back at my early writing and it’s shocking to see how my words were full of venom and self-loathing. I’m torn between wanting to hug my old self or kick her arse. But I’m not ashamed or contemptuous anymore. I’m proud of myself for surviving those darker days just as much as I’m proud of losing the weight.

So no more virtual double life. I don’t need a secret place to be my real self, because I’m being my real self all the time now, both online and out there in the big bad world. Now that I’m out, I’m going to be proud. I’m tired of worrying about what people think when they’re probably not thinking anything at all.

I’ve discovered the ultimate weight loss secret: become a fussy eater!

There was a time when the right time for food was any time and the right food was any food. But now I’ve cultivated a certain snobbishness, and it has to be the right food, at the best time of day or week, consumed in the perfect locale with the planets in correct alignment.

The best example is chocolate. Green & Black’s is now my preferred brand. I don’t like to eat it on a Sunday night, because I’ve got work the next day. The middle of the week is no good either, because I’m always busy exercising or washing my hair with a teacup. Ideally I save it for a Friday night, when I know the working week is behind me and there’s nothing else I should be thinking about. Then the next morning I can wake up and think fondly, How about that great chocolate I ate last night?

In the old days I’d buy half a kilo of cooking chocolate, hide in my room and cram it into my mouth in a frenzy. Now I get one of those tiny 35-gram bars and eat it on the couch with Gareth sitting beside me. He’s usually reading or on the laptop, so I’ll close my eyes, savoring both my delicious treat and the marital harmony.

These days it’s all about mindful consumption. I get annoyed if I succumb to a crappy bar from the vending machine or chomp M&Ms in the dark at the movies. If I can only have a tiny wee portion of chocolate, then I should pay attention to the moment! If I eat chocolate in the dark, how do I know I really ate it? Did it really happen?

I’m finally making my peace with food. Sometimes it’s just everyday fuel for my athletic endeavors, but sometimes it’s a moment to treasure. I don’t punish myself for eating something indulgent, nor do I go overboard when I fancy a treat.

Example of progress:

BEFORE. ATE:
Two-liter tub of ice cream.

REACTION:
Complete meltdown and minimum seven-day banishment to the Self-Loathing Pit.

NOW. ATE:
Mars Bar.

REACTION:
“Oh well, I’ll eat less tomorrow.”

It’s getting better all the time. I’m not as obsessed with food as I used to be. I’ve managed to tame it into unbridled enthusiasm!

I’ve been so busy being a media tart that I almost forgot there’s only two weeks until we go to Australia for Wedding Part III!

I can’t wait to get back home. I’ve been glued to
Neighbours
and swooning at the sound of Aussie voices. I got tearful at my BodyPump class this morning when the shoulder track was an AC/DC tune. I keep poring over our itinerary, my budget spreadsheet, and my folder full of tickets and hotel confirmations. I’ve even made a list of my lists:

• Gifts to Purchase!

• Tours to Organize!

• Fake Wedding Vows to Write!

• People to See after a 2.5 Year Absence!

• Things to Pack!

• Things I Want to Eat!

The one item that will remain unchecked is Get to Goal. I was 221 pounds and size 20 when I left, and I’m 189 pounds and a size 14 now. That doesn’t sound as impressive as I’d imagined earlier this year, but somehow it doesn’t seem to matter now. Overall, I’ve still lost a whole Gareth!

What matters is that I feel completely new. I look in the mirror and purr at my reflection instead of wanting to destroy it. I’m fascinated by how my body is gradually revealing its shape after hiding behind those extra layers. I used to worry I’d end up with floppy excess skin, but the leisurely pace of my weight loss has given things time to adjust. Every day there’s something new to admire. I’ve got broad shoulders and a pretty collarbone. My waist is shrinking and sadly my chest is too. I’ve got curvy hips and chunky thighs. I’ve got pillowy upper arms that lead to slender wrists and hands with long fingers. I even have ankles now, thanks to all those RPM classes. My body is a mass of contradictions—muscle and curves, stretch marks and strength—but I’m starting to embrace it all.

So when I go back to Australia, for the first time I want to see people and I want them to see me. I’m feeling foxy and I’m ready for my close-up!

Australia looked exactly how I’d left it. The same empty blue skies, sinewy gum trees, and sun so bright my eyes watered. So much has happened to me since I left, I thought maybe the landscape would have undergone a parallel transformation.

But with Gareth beside me it was like seeing the country for the first time. He pressed his nose against the window as I drove along the sprawling avenues of Canberra.

“Whoa! Look at that big pink parrot!”

“Ahh,” I laughed. “That’s a galah.”

“But it’s just sitting there beside the road. It’s huge! And… there’s white ones too!”

“They’re cockatoos.”

“We’ve only been here ten minutes and there’s crazy wildlife everywhere! When do we get to see some killer snakes?”

The most spectacular creature of all was the Mothership. We pulled up at her house in Goulburn to find her hopping from one foot to the other, looking 40 pounds lighter and twenty years younger.

“Hello, Daughter! Hello, Son-in-Law!”

“Mothership! You’ve shrunk!”

“Haven’t I just?” She grinned proudly and did a little twirl. “These are your fat old jeans that you gave me in Edinburgh. Size 16!”

“You look amazing. Is it all that walking?”

“The gym too,” she said, “I’m into weights and all that.”

“Wow!”

“You inspired me. I said to myself, ‘If Shauna can do it, why the bloody hell can’t I?’”

“Why not, indeed.”

“It’s different this time, I can just feel it. I’m finally doing it for the right reasons. I don’t do diets anymore. I just want to live to a ripe old age and make the most of my life, you know?”

“Yep!”

“I’m a new woman, Shauna. I don’t even tape
Oprah
every day now. I just don’t need to,” she said breezily. “I only tape it if the episode is going to be particularly relevant to me.”

“Well! You have truly reformed.”

“Thank you, darling!”

“But you know all this means you’re no longer Too Fat to make the tea. Get that kettle on!”

After we’d been watered, the Mothership said, “We’ll need to do a quick trip to Coles. But I promise I only need a few things!”

For the first time I didn’t want to wait in the car. I dragged Gareth up and down every aisle of the supermarket, showing him the culinary delights of my fair nation, all the new things and all the old friends I’d missed. The tropical fruits unencumbered by plastic packaging and air miles. The piles of affordable seafood. The superior Australian varieties of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk.